Ultramarine
by distantmirrors360
Summary: GIR stops functioning and Zim actually asks for help for once, a lot of emotions ensue.


The only sounds in Dibs room was the soft scratching of graphite against paper, overlapping with the summer ambiance; a cacophony of insects chirping along with the brief screeches of bats out for the evening. The glaring red numbers of his alarm clock revealed it was after two a.m., yet Dib remained burred in his weekend homework. Somehow, it only ever managed to get done at these ridiculous hours of the night, long after life itself seemed to have ceased for the day. The backdrop of distant skyscrapers against a deep blue dotted with the handful of stars strong enough to outshine the light pollution were a familiar sight outside his open window. He found it was easier this late, long after the drone of the nearby city had abated and cars scarcely passed, after the ever present stillness that came with late night hours had set in. Dibs train of thought was interrupted by what sounded like sharp metal hitting the siding of his walls. Confused, he looked up from his ever growing mountain of textbooks, notebooks, and writing utensils, only to have his eyes meet familiar ruby red ones peaking out from the corner of the window.

"Zim?! What are you doing here at 2 a.m.?!"  
"Heh. About that..." Zim replied, lifting himself onto the window sill and neatly folding up his PAK legs, carrying in his arms his sidekick's limp body. GIRs eyes were an unsettling, unresponsive grey, not unlike an empty TV screen.  
"Look at you, you aren't even wearing your disguise!" Dib said, closing up his work and pushing it aside, "How did you even manage to get here looking like that?"  
Zim straightened up and narrowed his eyes, "I think you underestimate the sheer amount of training I've endured over the years, Dib-human, I assure you I am a master of stealth and not even a _single_ human witnessed my arrival."  
"Uh-huh," Dib replied, pointing to GIRs motionless body, "what's wrong with your little robot there?"  
"Yes, well..." Zim stared down at his unresponsive cohort, looking a bit sheepish as he gathered his words, "he started speaking in nonsense words a few hours ago. I didn't think anything of it at first, but after a while it sounded as if he was trying to tell me something but couldn't get it out properly." Zim fidgeted with GIRs head, tilting it this way and that, watching the light reflect off his eyes in different directions. "Then all of the sudden he just shutdown. I've been trying to get him functioning for hours now, but every time I fix one thing I find five other problems," he huffed.  
"I guess I can give it a try," Dib replied, walking over to his cluttered desk and beginning the dig for just the right tools. "I thought he drove you nuts, why are you bothering with it anyway?" His hands were now buried in his desk drawer.  
Zim slid off the window sill and climbed down onto Dibs bed with a creak, criss-crossing his legs comfortably. "GIR was a gift from the Almighty Tallest-he may be more of a hindrance than a help now and then, but I can't just leave him like this."  
"So, you came here in the dead of night for help fixing something you, a mighty Irken, couldn't?" He teased, looking back over his shoulder. Zim stared fixedly at the corner of the room, saying nothing.  
Dib returned with a handful of miscellaneous screwdrivers and wrenches; he'd collected and altered a great many throughout the years of trying to manipulate alien technology-turns out Irkens don't use Phillips head, unsurprisingly. He settled back down and motioned to Zim, "Let me have a look."  
"I think what initially set it off was a voice output error," he said, handing over a motionless GIR, "which can be fixed easily enough, but with GIR being the way he is..."

Dib opened the head compartment and got to work fiddling with this and that, mumbling to himself the whole time. GIRs circuitry was an absolute mess; being made of scrapped parts made him dysfunctional enough without the random objects and substances he hid in himself. There was always a chance you would turn something over and find random small objects lost weeks ago coated in jelly. Perhaps this is where all the lost hair ties and chapsticks in the universe went-every time you dropped something an it bounced out of sight it would appear in this enigma of a robots head.  
Zim leaned forward, watching Dibs progress and scrutinizing every movement with a dissatisfied scowl. He was quiet at first, but after only a few minutes he seemed increasingly unable to contain himself.  
"I already tried that, Dib-thing!" He complained, pointing to a cluster of wires, "messing with the voice output isn't going to accomplish anything!"  
"I know, I'm just trying to take inventory of what's wrong here." Dib said without looking up. Zim grew more impatient with each passing second. He fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, then a loose thread on Dibs jeans, trying to think about something else besides the past four hours he'd wasted trying to fix the hopeless mess of interconnected errors that somehow managed to work _just fine_ until today, but of course the day he was absurdly busy with research and _literally anything else_ more important than this had to be the day GIR stopped functioning altogether.  
"What do you know about Irken technology anyway?" Zim snapped, yanking GIR and the screwdriver out of a surprised Dibs hands and turning his back to him, to make what would almost certainly be another futile attempt.  
"You have no idea how incorrect that statement is," he retorted. Dib had been working with Irken technology since he was eleven, in fact he'd interacted with it so frequently over the years it didn't even feel foreign anymore. If any human could figure it out, it was him. Zim was rapidly becoming just as frustrated and confused as he had been just before he stormed out of his lab and down the street to climb up the side of Dibs house. This was unbearable, how incompetent did a mighty Irken invader have to be to have a hard time fixing something as simple as a SIR unit? Smeets could have this done in a matter of minutes and here he was asking for help from an inferior species-no wonder his mission dragged on for years, what else would you expect from the reason Impending Doom was a complete failure?

Perhaps if he'd been facing towards him, Dib would've noticed the tears threatening to form at the corners of his eyes. That gross indignant feeling, as if your emotions themselves are going to overflow from your tear ducts as you desperately try to halt it before its too late, and that sound of shallow erratic breathing that was uncomfortably conspicuous, it was all so unbearable. His thoughts were brought out of a downward spiral when Dibs hands met his waist.  
Dib sighed, "Just let me handle it, you've done enough." In a single gentle movement, he pulled him close so Zims back met Dibs chest. He grabbed the tools from surprised hands, rested his chin on Zims head, and went back to work without another word.

Humans were warm, they were so much warmer than he expected. They seemed to radiate heat regardless of the circumstance, and it enveloped everything they interacted with, lingering long after they were gone. Humans breathed differently then Irkens did, in fact Zim had hardly noticed until now how their entire front would rise and fall with a gentle, but distinct rhythm, each exhale just barely audible. It was all so strangely calming, he didn't understand it. This was his avowed rival, his nemesis, how many times had they sworn to destroy each other? How many black eyes, lacerations, and bruises had they given each other over the years? Yet here he was, in enemy territory, wrapped comfortably in his shadow.

Dib's room was something else; the walls were all but covered in posters of all sorts, though Zims eyes were drawn to a diagram of a distant solar system that seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps he'd flown past it a time or two without realizing. Complex algorithms covered entire square yards between cryptic messages and conspiracy theory style red threads connecting Polaroids with no explanation in sight. Three unattended computer screens provided most of light in the room, cloaking everything in a deep ultramarine blue. Light had no substance to it, really, but now it felt as if it left a thin sheet of _something_ where ever it landed. It caught on the corner of a desk, the reflection of a CD, the edge of the window sill, the lenses of GIRs eyes, it traced across Dibs forearms while he worked, lingering and shifting across long hands as they moved, catching on a knuckle, then a tendon.

Zim reached gently over to Dibs unoccupied hand, who froze, and noted the differences for a moment. Humans, proportionately, had smaller digits than Irkens despite having more of them, and they seemed unnecessarily complicated-all these tiny bones, and veins that stretched out in nonsensical directions and eventually disappear. As if on impulse, Zim lifted the humans hand, pressing it to the Irkens chest. He was so small in comparison, from palm to finger tip Dibs hand stretched all the way across his thin frame. It all felt so odd, and since when was physical contact like this comforting?  
Under his finger tips, Dib could feel a pulse moving with a strange, foreign rhythm, perhaps in triplet patterns. With every minuscule jump, it seemed to accelerate against Zims will, as if the reaction in itself were shameful yet wanted to be known. Each moment feels like an eternity, each minuscule movement and breath so conspicuous yet welcome. It was all so overwhelming, his heat, his smell, his voice.  
"You're warm, Dib" an uncertain voice managed to murmur. He responded with a tight embrace, pulling his other arm across Zims front, his entire body so close it felt as if they could merge into one.  
"I don't understand," more words escaped Zims mouth, "I don't understand my own emotions, I don't understand anything." He thought he might  
even cry again.  
"Shhh," Dib hushed softly, "you're okay..."  
How much time passed like this? How many minutes passed with only the sound of quiet breathing, a faint heartbeat? A car passes, the sound of the tires changing in pitch as it grows near and eventually fading off into the distance, unknowing. Blue light continues to coat the walls and caress its occupants, surely they'll be gentler when morning comes.


End file.
